Consent (The Loan Shark Duet 2)

“Can we just get through the interviews without any comments from you?”

Neither answers.

I sigh and stick my head around the doorframe. “You can come back in.”

The young man gives me an apologetic smile. “I thought about it while I waited, and I’m sorry, but it’s not for me.”

He leaves without saying goodbye.

“Now look what you’ve done,” I exclaim on a huff.

They look too damn pleased with themselves, as if they fought a wolf off a lamb.

For far too long, I avoided the Brixton site. I choose a Saturday when I can leave Charlie and Connor with Kris. I don’t want either of them to witness this.

Quincy and Rhett flank me next to the second-hand Honda I took possession of this morning. I sold the Porsche to minimize expenses. The three of us stare at the destroyed building. Emotions float between us. Of all the people in the world, they’re the only two who understand what I feel, because they must be feeling a part of it. Rhett takes a shaky breath. He was guarding the street when the blast hit. The roof and parts of the walls are missing. What used to be the windows and door are gaping holes, revealing an expanse of blackness inside.

When I take the first step, the guys follow. They let me go at my own tempo, staying a step behind. The power of the destruction is devastating. Going through the doorframe is like walking into a vortex of death. Everything is a shade of black––shiny onyx and matt charcoal with smears of greasy oil. Guilt suffocates me. I wanted a way out. At some point, especially during the early days, I would’ve wished for this. Not so, now. I only want Gabriel back. Broken filing cabinets lay on their sides, their drawers flung out. The cushionless frameworks of upside-down chairs surround us. It’s like standing in the eye of a twister of pain. My heart rate spikes, and my breathing quickens.

“There’s nothing for us here,” I whisper.

“Let’s get her the fuck out.” Rhett turns me in the opposite direction and propels me through what used to be the door.

In the street, I gulp in air, fighting to contain the panic attack. Feeling sick, I rest my hands on my knees.

“It was a bad idea to come,” Rhett says.

Quincy hands me a tissue. “She needed the closure.”

This isn’t my closure. This is only the beginning. If it’s the last thing I do, I will find Gabriel. I just need to make some damn money.

A scruffy pair of heavy-duty, construction boots fall in my line of vision.

“Hey,” Quincy draws his gun, “stop right there.”

My gaze trails up over mustard-colored pants and a white shirt with oil stains to a round face supported on a double chin.

“Howzit, Val?”

I wipe my mouth and straighten. “Hello, Lambert.”

“You know Roos?” Rhett asks with a hint of surprise.

It’s Lambert who answers. “We’re childhood friends. Grew up together in the hood.”

I never expected to see him again. “What are you doing here?”

“Just wanted to say I’m sorry.” He looks at his feet. “I heard you married big.”

“Sorry for what?”

“For never saying something.”

“Who told you?”

“Marvin. Said he’d kill me if I open my flytrap, and if he couldn’t get to me, Mr. Louw’s people would.”

“It’s history, now.”

Quincy and Rhett’s heads turn between us. I want to leave the past in the past, not flaunt it at their feet.

“Does that mean you forgive me?”

“You didn’t have a choice, Lambert. There’s nothing to forgive.”

“You’re not going to come with your goons,” he looks at Rhett and Quincy, “and shoot me in the back while I’m sleeping?”

“No.”

“Okay.” He shoves his hands in his pockets and rolls on the balls of his feet, still not meeting my eyes.

“Goodbye, Lambert.”

“Yeah. Cheers, I guess.”

Rhett gives him a look that says, ‘Don’t fuck with me,’ as we walk back to the car.

“Who’s he?” Quincy asks.

“My almost-fiancé.”

“Jesus. Good riddance,” Rhett mumbles. “If he looks in your direction again, I’ll put a bullet in his––”

“No more violence,” I say.

“I was going to say a bullet in his big toe, out of self-defense, of course, if he attacks.”

I can only smile as Rhett holds the door for me.

“I wonder where he could hide?” I muse to myself as I start the engine.

“Your almost-fiancé?” Quincy asks.

“Gabriel.”

A thick silence descends on the vehicle. Neither of my companions says a word.

At home, I work out in the gym, building my strength and endurance as I do every day now, and enjoy the luxury of a long, uninterrupted shower with no baby fussing or hungry hurls before we head out to Kris’ place for dinner and to pick up Charlie and Connor. When I step into the kitchen, Quincy and Rhett are leaning on the counter, their arms crossed.

“I know this look.” I prop my hands on my hips. “What have I done?”